


to be broken

by The Master of the Deck (officiumdefunctorum)



Series: on wednesdays we whump [10]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Introspection, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Rape Aftermath, Self-Doubt, Taringail Damodred's A+ Parenting, Whump, unbeta'd we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29509677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officiumdefunctorum/pseuds/The%20Master%20of%20the%20Deck
Summary: Galad is confronted by the impermanence of symbols, and how violence can come wrapped in wool.
Relationships: Galad Damodred/Eamon Valda
Series: on wednesdays we whump [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661389
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9





	to be broken

**Author's Note:**

> There is no graphic description of rape or of injury in this fic. All of the focus is on Galad and his feels.
> 
> The idea for this fic was born from discord conversations about how Eamon Valda is a piece of shit, and would _absolutely_ have pulled the same brand of blackmail/coercion on anybody he felt like manipulating.

Galad stared at the wall of his room where a mirror hung, his mind drifting, skittering around the enormity of the past hour.

Time passed, and Galad just—looked.

In his heart, Galad Damodred was a soldier. It was a life built upon expectation, commitment, loyalty, and trust. Order.

_ Disorder, disorder.  _ Galad twitched his head, batting the thought away.

A well-ordered military under competent leadership was the wing under which Galad had sheltered for most of his life. Something as simple as a uniform held great significance for him, and always had.

Symbols had meaning, and a person wearing such symbols should do everything in their power to live up to that meaning. Make it part of themselves. If they did not, how were they any better than a liar, an imposter?

Galad  _ was _ his uniform, whether that be the raiment of a Prince of Andor or the white cloak he wore now.

_ It is not white anymore _ .

His thoughts veered to his father, and of a crown and tree and a duty unfulfilled, of the ways a symbol could be twisted; how the face of what should be instead became what was not. Or perhaps, had always meant what it should not have?

It was confusing, and  _ terrifying _ , and Galad had long ago resolved never to lie like that. Before even his face or his nationality, his uniform—his  _ being— _ would tell anybody looking at him who he was. What he stood for.

Galad had always known what he’d stood for... hadn’t he?

_ Were you standing, just minutes ago, Galad Damodred? _

Galad brushed grime from the knees of his uniform trousers with a shaking hand. It did little more than smear the dark stain further, and he stopped, closing his eyes. His cloak was soiled, too. Was a button missing from his coat?

He’d have to wash them, later. His uniform should be clean. Orderly. If it was stained, then by association so was he. He must be—it should—

Shuddering, Galad lurched a step toward his bed, and retched into the chamber pot.

Disorder. It invaded his thoughts, and oh, how Galad  _ hated _ disorder.

Finding himself kneeling again, Galad quickly stumbled to his feet, and, for a minute, tried to reorder his uniform. It was dirty. It was damaged.

_ It is me, and I, it. _

His mind whirled.  _ Too much. I cannot break. _

With a great effort, Galad stopped himself. Took deep breaths. Looked at objects in his room and named them, described them in his head. Tricks he’d learned as a child to manage when the disorder became too much for him.

Today had been—too much. Each  _ moment _ was now too much. Galad could not abide the weight of his uniform, the very sensation of the fabric against his skin. With an almost desperate attempt to retain some sense of equilibrium, he continued his ritual as he began to remove each hateful item of clothing.

Cloak. Wool. A cloth to clear away a mess from one’s skin.

Galad breathed, and let the garment fall to the floor.

Coat. Wool. Missing—missing buttons. Difficult to remove in haste. No protection from unwanted touch.

Damaged, but clean.  _ You are not clean. _ He could resow the buttons later. When he—when his—

_ For a swordsman you do have such delicate hands, Damodred. I wonder, can you put them to good use? _

Galad’s mind drifted once more, as if he sought the void unbidden.

When he came back to himself, he was sitting, his hands making fists in the fabric of his coat. Wrinkled, now. Moreso. He relaxed his hands, watched the blood seep back into his knuckles. Dropped the coat on the floor with the cloak, and mechanically undid his belt, trying not to think of when he’d last done so.

Belt. Bleached leather. Improvised restraint. A threat. A promise.

It joined the pile on the floor. Boots. Stockings.  _ Disorder, disorder. _

Did he care? Which was the true reflection, the real symbol?

_ Breathe, Galad. _

Trousers. Wool. Not thick enough to cushion the knees from hard stone. Stained.

_ Do you know, I would bet that dozens of men and women have fantasized about this exact thing. You, on your knees. That perfect face gazing up at them. _

Another wave of sickness washed over him, and Galad breathed through it.  _ Disorder, disorder, disorder.  _ Finish the task. Then the next.

He breathed, and dropped the trousers into the pile.

Shirt. Linen. Plain, laced at the front. Long sleeves, loose cuffs. Not worn to be seen. Thin material. Stained at the neck and chest. Stained _. _

Galad pulled it over his head and let it join the pile, unable to look at the soiled garment. He shivered in the chill of the room, the brazier burned down to tiny coals. It was not yet dark in the town where the Children were quartering, and Galad had not thought to have need of it.

The chill helped. The memory of warmth, of hot touches and groping hands was—it was—

Smallclothes. Linen. Improvised gag. Torn. Ruined.  _ Stained _ .

As if in a trance, Galad rose from his bed, naked, and walked to the brazier. After a few minutes, he had glowing heat at his disposal. Without more than a cursory glance, he tossed his smallclothes onto the coals and watched them burn.

Some—some symbols should be destroyed.

Closing the brazier, he almost wished that it did not have the piping through which the smoke would escape; he would have welcomed the choking fumes as an excuse for the tears on his face.

_ Come now, Prince of Andor. It cannot be that you’ve never done this. Enough of your tears, be quiet or I’ll have to gag you. _

Disorder.

Galad sat on his bed, drew his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around himself, wishing very much that his brother were here to make him laugh. Oddly, he thought of Nynaeve, that Accepted from the Two Rivers who had so thoroughly rebuffed him. She was—she was a healer, and he thought he might have need of healing. Something about her had said she would be gentle, and  _ kind _ , and—and he—

_ You will heed me, Damodred, and do as I say. In your hands you hold the lives of your people. None would question a few Andoran peasants brought to justice, and what of your sister? I hear tell she is gone from the tower. Anything might happen to a runaway. She could be brought back safely, or perhaps... lost forever. You wouldn’t want that on your well developed conscience, would you? _

A sob rose in his chest, perhaps a scream. He forced them down.

_ No son of mine will snivel like an infant. Strength, Galad, and silence. You are a prince, not a child. _

Disorder. Disorder. Painful, humiliating disorder.

Perhaps the wool of his clothing had come from the Two Rivers. Perhaps Nynaeve, or Rand al’Thor, or the young Mat Cauthon, had touched the very fibers that Galad had left in a cooling pile in this room.

How very far such things had come, only to be abused and stained with violence.

The light waned, and Galad did not move. He sought for order, sought to retrieve the broken pieces of expectation and commitment that had brought him here. The questioning loyalty, and violated trust. Symbols, their meaning, and the truth of them. He tried to understand the soiled uniform that had brought him comfort, and now seemed a mark of ownership, instead.

At length, in the dark of evening, the lamp unlit and the brazier low burning coals, a knock came at his door.

Galad’s stomach tightened, and he hugged himself more tightly.

“Damodred, you in there?”

Trom. A friend.

_ Was _ he a friend? Were any who wore those uniforms friends? Did every white cloak and pressed coat hide a liar and an enemy?

_ Disorder. Disorder. _

Galad imagined calling out, telling him to enter. Perhaps Trom would enter of his own accord. See him, naked in the darkness, his stained uniform in a heap on the floor. The sheets beneath him now likely stained, as well.

The thought made him feel oddly numb; perhaps he had spent what capacity for humiliation he contained earlier that afternoon. Only a benign sense of urgency made itself known, and Galad willed Trom to open the door, to see him, to know— _ to know _ —that he had not wanted it. That Eamon Valda was a viper, and a brute, and unfit to wear the sunburst of the Children of the Light.

Or was he? Perhaps that was exactly what the sunburst meant, and Galad had been deceived not just by Eamon Valda, but by his own mind.  _ The Way Of The Light  _ had spoken to him; words and philosophy of simplicity and logic, wrapped in the beautiful softness of a white cloak and a glittering star.

Perhaps Trom was like Valda--perhaps all of them were. Trom would hurt him, too. Would forsake the oaths and brotherhood that were supposed to be what held the Children of the Light together.

The thought made Galad clutch his knees more tightly, and he waited without breathing.

Trom did not enter, and the light of his lantern faded from the crack beneath the door.

No salvation, then. No salvation, and no violence.

At once, he felt guilty for the thoughts he'd had. Trom was no rapist. It was ridiculous to think all the Children would be like Valda, but his friend most of all. Galad was not thinking clearly.

Was he?

_ Do not put your faith in the unselfish actions of those around you. Men will take what they want, given the opportunity, and if that means stabbing you in the back, few would hesitate. I would not hesitate. Let them think you are giving them what they want, and when you have your chance, strike. _

In his near thirty years of life, Galad had taken every opportunity to divest himself of his father’s teachings. Taringail Damodred had been a manipulative man without empathy or compassion, and now... now Galad once more found himself in the power of someone similar.

Was this his own fault? He was not a stupid man. He knew what his mother said of the Children of the Light, the stories people told. Was it his own hubris, his naïveté that had brought him to this?

_ Disorder. _

Chest tight, body aching, Galad pressed his face to his bruised knees and tried to keep himself from shattering. He did not sob, though his body wished to, his chest tight and the muscles in his neck and jaw straining with effort. Many years ago, Galad had learned to weep quietly, and it had served him well.

Eventually, the urge subsided and his tears ebbed, and with their loss came the numb quietude of grief and exhaustion.

In the darkness, his mind drifted again. He had a problem, and it could not be ignored. He could never ignore such things, though he wished his mind would let him sleep—let him escape, for a while, what had been done to him.

_ We are not made for lives of peace and contentment. If you wish for peace, seek the grave. _

Long ago, Galad had promised himself to do the right thing, promised it by the Light and his hope for salvation and rebirth. Promised it with blood and tears when he'd told the court Bard of his father's plans to have Morgase killed, not knowing what would happen, but suspecting the outcome. Doing the right thing now should be easy.

Why, then, did it feel so impossible?

What was right? If it meant the protection of his people, and his sister, he would do anything Valda wished of him without regret. But did Galad not also deserve justice, and protection? Would his honor be enough to carry his word over a Commander of the Children of the Light before a magistrate? Would it keep those he was responsible for safe?

He did not know that it would, but Galad did know intimately how men like Valda worked; he had been raised by one. Though he wished for satisfaction, his selfishness was not the right thing. It could not be. Not now. Not yet.

Valda had Galad trapped—his stomach flipped at the thought—but he did not delude himself that Valad had not or would not use his position to hurt others the same way. How easily Galad had been lured into his web, how easily he had—he had—

Minutes passed, and Galad stared at the pile of white clothing on the floor, mind hazy and chest tight.  _ I could kill him. I could do it, and it would be done. _

But he couldn't. Not like this. Not when it would only help himself, and no one else. Perhaps not even that, if no one believed him about the rape. No, Galad would have to be broken before he became a murderer, and he could not help anyone if he broke. Not his people or the lost men he had joined and called brothers.

Galad could not show them the way to be better if he allowed Valda to shatter him, and they could be better. They  _ should _ be better.

Did they want to be? Galad wanted them to. Everyone could be, if shown the way to do so. Galad believed that, whatever his addled mind might whisper to him. The world could not be made up of people like Taringail Damodred and Eamon Valda.

Galad thought of his bruised knees, his sore throat, and the throbbing between his legs, and he thought—he thought that he could endure this. His heart raced, and he felt sick. But he  _ could endure _ . It had not been so bad, had it? Were there not worse tortures a man could experience? He could—he could do this.

It was the right thing, wasn’t it? And when he sank his sword into Valda’s throat, that, too, would be the right thing. Wanting to cut him and slice away his arrogant face was—it was  _ right _ .

It would be, Galad thought to himself, bitter tears escaping his eyes anew. It would be the right thing. It would be  _ justice _ to kill him.

_ Not yet. Not now. _

Time passed, and the light of the waxing moon began to show through his window, and Galad at last ran out of selfish tears. He had work to do.

Galad rose on unsteady legs, wincing at the unfamiliar pains in his body, and went to the wardrobe to retrieve his second uniform. With careful, determined motions, he began dressing, a reverse of his earlier ritual.

As he dressed, he thought of symbols; he thought of deception, and of truth.

_ If you are weak, show them strength, and if you are strong, have no mercy. _

Eamon Valda would never see Galad Damodred break. Galad could not  _ be _ broken, and so he would not be. A broken man could not do what Galad needed to do.

When he finished dressing, Galad looked at himself in the mirror. Combed his hair, washed his face, and saw a soldier looking back. Saw himself without stains, and yet...

Galad placed a hand over the sunburst on his chest, and wondered at its meaning. What it was supposed to mean, and what it actually meant. What meaning he chose to give it, what he could show others, given time.

Would it be enough?

Perhaps it was Galad who needed to give it meaning, not just for himself, but for the other Children. Something more than Eamon Valda’s brand on his breast.  _ Order. _ The smallest bit of it.

Collecting his soiled uniform in a laundry sack, Galad prepared to see to the washing. It seemed that, once more, Galad would have to define for himself what this symbol meant. He had needed to choose what it meant to be a son, a brother, and a prince; now, he must choose what it meant to be a Child of the Light.

Pain flickered through Galad’s body, his eyes stung with memory, and he wanted very much to sit back down on his bed and allow himself to break. To be broken.

Distantly, Galad thought of the young man Rand al’Thor, who had so long ago fallen into the gardens in Caemlyn. He thought of how lost the young man had looked, how ill-fitting the sword at his hip. To know that boy was the Dragon Reborn... Galad wondered if he, too, felt the burden of symbols. If he would choose what it meant to channel  _ saidin _ , and if his banner would bring terror or salvation. If he, too, could not be broken.

With a bitter smile, Galad remembered what little he knew of the Karaethon cycle, and wondered at how he could ever have hoped things would be so simple. They never were.

Disorder. 

In its way, it was simple. Clad in his fresh uniform, Galad fortified himself to depart his rooms, to be something he hated but had not chosen, and to also be something he might love, that he  _ had _ .

And maybe, one day, Galad could be broken.

On that day, Eamon Valda would die. If Valda believed until then that what Galad represented meant something it did not, that did not make Galad a liar—it made Valda a fool.

**Author's Note:**

> I have such complicated feelings about Galad, and how he might react to this situation. I think I edited and reworked this over a dozen times, and still change my mind. But! I have ALL the Taringail headcanons.
> 
> Anyway, I'll fix the notes and formatting on this later with a discord invite. I'm publishing on my phone.


End file.
